Ozai's Later Years
by chelmsford37
Summary: What does Ozai think about when he's alone in his cell? Can he face himself?
1. Chapter 1

There had been many coup attempts in the years after the war ended. He was involved in or at least used as a symbol by most of them. A few actually got into contact with him in his cell. All were thwarted by the combined efforts of the Avatar and his friends. But he had patience.

He knew that there were many who had become rich off the war, and he could count on their self-interest to want to get a peaceful man like his son off the throne. There was the possibility that they would go for someone easier to control, but he knew that businessmen abhorred risk. He was the surest bet to get a coup off the ground. And the military had been indoctrinated for so long in the divine right of Ozai's family to rule, that any who had hubris enough to want power for themselves would not find much support among those itching for change.

All in good time.

His son suspected his treacherous plots, but he couldn't bring himself to end his father's life. Ozai had planned on that. He didn't push him, for after his initial breakdown upon losing his bending, he had gathered his wits. He could wait for the day that he was back in power. Then he would make the avatar pay (although probably not in a one on one fight), and thrash the traitors.

He did allow himself one gloat. As his son came to him one night, whining about the war hawks in the country, Ozai came up with a thought to goad him. "As long as the people want war, you will not be able to bring peace. This nation has become rich and great off of the war, and there is no reason to think that they will ever want anything different." Zuko had scowled, and left. Ozai smirked, but then wondered at how far he had fallen that a little dig would bring a smile to his face.

He had not thought of Azula for months. In all of the plots, no one had brought up Azula, so he assumed her dead. It didn't bother him much. Failure of this magnitude should be rewarded with death. (In his case, he felt that the Avatar and his son were being a bit malicious in denying him that.)

After months with lessening contact with his fellow conspirators, he began to chafe at his imprisonment. When they had kept him apprised of all that occurred outside of his cell, it had been bearable. But now, he began to be more aware of his situation, and his patience wore thin. He finally grew desperate and demanded that a guard inform him of what was going on outside. Among inane bits of gossip and speculation, he discerned that Zuko had begun transitioning the war factories to produce mercantile goods. Ozai felt a dark premonition about this, though he was not able to articulate what he feared.

As time went on and the Fire Nation become more rich, in peace time, than they had even know in war, and months continued to pass without contact from his so-called "friends", he forced himself to face the unsavory truth. The malcontents who might have started a coup had been appeased by prosperity under Zuko. The Factory Owners preferred the peace time work, for they had less to fear from an enemy attack, but they could still draw in money hand over fist.

As far as the military, war crimes tribunals helped ease most of the hardened holdovers to retire and seek jobs in the new manufacturing boom or escape with a cushy pension. The truly loyal, of course, were imprisoned as he.

It had been a few years since he had been the center of so much talk and hope (at least, on his part). He began to rage at his son almost incoherently whenever he came. Iroh never came. His mind began to wonder after Azula. What had happened to her?

And it rested more and more, as it had wont to do, even in his height as Phoenix King, on his absent wife, Ursa. He knew it was foolish. He knew she was either dead, with another man, or living some pathetic life somewhere. But it was like a mental itch he couldn't scratch. He was secretly surprised that she hadn't returned after Zuko became Fire Lord, but he kept that to himself and goaded his son whenever he asked about her.

It was one evening, while engrossed in these morose thoughts, that he felt his eyes start to sting. He bid the tears back, but they welled on the edges of his eyelids until at last they fell. He had turned himself to the back of his cell, so he let them fall and didn't wipe them away, in order to not give himself away. But gradually he felt the pain well up in him and his shoulders started to bounce. His breath came in gasps and sobs, but he kept himself quiet.

At this time, he felt the most oppressed of all men. He thought of his father, Azulon. The old bastard. He had been more like a grandfather to him than an actual father. It had been a time of war, and Iroh proved himself in battle. "Stupid Father, I could've proved myself in battle!" By the time he had come of age, Azulon was clingy and kept Ozai at the palace. Yet he hardly ever spent time with Ozai's new family. Ozai had just wanted to be noticed. It was in his childhood he had learned about the chasm between first and second.

Unbidden, scenes from his past began to flash into his memory.

It wasn't my fault. Azulon was the one who wanted me to do it. It would've been his fault.

Ursa, you were so useful, in the end. But why did you go? I would've protected you! No one even knew what really killed him! Why did you leave!

Why did you leave me to take care of our children! You horrible woman! You horrible mother! You knew I couldn't handle them. You knew I couldn't give them what they wanted! That's what you were there for!

By this time, Ozai was gasping and hiccupping as he clutched himself. He allowed himself to drop the flawless fire lord act, and feel sorry for himself. No one understood him. No one had tried. He hadn't been close to any member of his family. It was all his father's fault. No, it was Iroh! He had taken Father's love and turned Zuko against him! No, it was Zuko, who had thrown away all of the love he had tried to give him at last, and a place at his right hand, to help the avatar destroy his life's work, and then take his place! A part of him was actually in awe of his son's political maneuvering, but he scowled as he decided that his son had shown himself too womanly to have actually planned it that way.

What about Azula? If she had just done her part, he wouldn't be here now. He shouldn't have been surprised. He had seen her start to slip before he left for his (unbeknownst to him) fateful encounter with the Avatar. But he had been surprised. Very surprised. Azula had always been the picture of perfection. The only annoying thing was occasionally it seemed that she looked to him for some kind of acknowledgment. It was a foolish weakness. He had received no such treatment from his father, and it had made him strong. It was also why he had pitted his children against each other. They couldn't count on each other, only on themselves.

(It didn't occur to him that he had never learned to show support, so he couldn't have even if he wanted to. And it also didn't occur to him that his preferential treatment of the superior but overlooked younger sibling had anything to do with his relationship with his own sibling. He didn't think about Iroh much at all these days. He was past that.)

Finally spent, he leaned against the wall. He breathing slowed and went back to normal. It felt like a dam had burst. He had had no idea that all of that had been pent up inside of him. It felt mortifying, but vaguely refreshing, to have taken that burden off his shoulders. And after looking in the face of all that pain and anger and resentment he had carried, he was able to face the truth. It was his fault. It had always been his fault. If he had been stronger, he would have been able to keep his family together. If his priorities had been in the right place, maybe he would still have his children with him. Maybe he would still have her…

He pounded his fists against his temples. Why?! Why had it taken so long for him to see this? Thoughts of the coup attempts came to his mind unbidden. As long as they had curried his favor, he had felt important. Even rotting in a cell, he had clung to his delusions of grandeur in favor of a son who had spared his life and continued to spare his life, against all reason!

He writhed on the ground. Oh the shame! He burned with self-loathing. If he had had anything at hand, he might have hurt himself. As it was, he banged his head against the floor until it rang. Sweat soaked his clothing. He clasped his hands together in anxiety, mumbling apologies and curses. Finally he lay still, exhausted.

He was completely wrung out. Totally exhausted, body, mind, and soul. He quickly slipped into unconsciousness and lay as if he were dead.

"Agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him; lest at any time the adversary deliver thee to the judge, and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be cast into prison. Verily I say unto thee, Thou shalt by no means come out thence, till thou hast paid the uttermost farthing." -Jesus


	2. Chapter 2

The last couple of days, he had begun wondering about his bending. It had been a while since he had wanted to. He occasionally still had PTSD flashbacks to his battle with the Avatar. It had started so well, driving the boy before him as chaff. He knew in that moment that the Avatar could not beat him. He would prevail, and no one would be able to stand against him.

Then everything had changed. After he had tired of playing, and had moved in for the kill, suddenly, the tables had turned. His memories of how it happened were still a blur, but suddenly he was on the run for his life. He saw the Avatar bending each element with a mastery that he had never imagined. It was like witnessing a force of nature. Then it was upon him, and he wasn't witnessing anything. He could hear jagged rocks pelting around him like crazy hail, missing by inches as he expended every ounce of his comet induced power.

It was like a dream, one of those where you run from some terrifying monster, but no matter how fast you run or what you do, you can't get away. At times, out of desperation, he fired back, trying to at least distract the apparition or get himself some breathing room. But the Avatar dealt with his attacks as easily as he himself might have brushed off the attack of an infant.

Adrenaline had coursed through his veins, but he still maintained to this day that he had not been afraid. Not because he was especially brave or ignorant, but simply because he hadn't had time to feel scared. Once he was caught and immobilized, then the fear came, like a tidal wave. His heart had been beating so fast, he thought he was going to have a heart attack.

At this point he could actually hear the Avatar, and it sounded like some horrible vision from the Spirit World. He could see and sense his impending death, and as the inexorable killing blow surged towards him, he felt a scream well up in his lungs.

And then…nothing. He was soaked by a heavy douse of water and a few pebbles, but nothing compared to what had been coming. His bonds released him, and he looked about. His brain could not comprehend what had changed. The Avatar was saying something, but his ears were still ringing, so he could barely make it out. But he saw it. The Avatar had reverted to the boy from the beginning of the battle.

Ozai exclaimed his surprise and disappointment. This was pathetic, compared to the power from before. Instincts honed by battle, he lashed out, ready to cut him off the face of the earth before he had a chance to once again bring that great power to bear. He even felt a flash of joy as he aimed the killing blow, and then…

He wasn't even sure what happened, but it felt so strange. If his dignity would have allowed, he might have used the term cooties. It felt like creeping things crawling around in his brain, under his skin. He didn't know what was going on, so he lashed out mentally, trying to repel the invader. He was barely aware that he couldn't move his body, he was so invested in the mental struggle. Then, suddenly, a bright flash of light and he was back in his own body, weak, so weak.

His brain still spinning, he instinctively lashed out at his enemy. But nothing came. It was then that he realized that he felt cold, so cold. He demanded answers from the boy, but collapsed even as he was asking them.

In the days following, Ozai tried to deny what had happened to him. He wanted to test himself, but he held back, fearing what he would discover. But even without trying, the reality began to push itself to the forefront of his mind. He felt totally disconnected from his native element. There were no shortage of voices, scientific and medical, to question and try to explain what had happened to him. But the gist was the same. The Avatar had somehow taken away his bending.

Those first weeks had been the hardest.

His mind still lingered occasionally on what he had lost. But it hurt too much, like an inner violation. So he steeled himself to block out that memory. It was very difficult. A lifetime of learning to live and move with the flow of his chi, and now it was gone. He almost didn't know how to act without the familiar hum of his chi and the utility, always at hand, coming from within, of his fire.

Someone had made the casual remark that non-bender's lived without bending and did very well. It mortified him that he couldn't reach across and throttle the fool for his irredeemable ignorance. If the world had indeed been just, such a one would have expired in an ignominious death long ago.

He sat, as always, in the dank dark of his cell. It occurred to him, perhaps not for the first time, that Iroh had spent his imprisonment in a cell in this very prison. But he had a hard time admitting it would have been as bad as this particular cell. "Feh," he spat, dismissing that pointless and egotistical train of thought. No one was going to feel sorry for him, and he didn't particularly care to either.

He raised his hand and looked at the lines crossing and criss-crossing his palm. He hadn't heard from anyone if it were true, but he always fancied that those lines corresponded to the body's chi lines. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone because he didn't want to lose face if he were wrong.

(He was, in fact, incorrect about the significance of the hand lines.)

As he looked at his hand, he allowed himself to open up to the feeling of loss and grief. Despite the embarrassment and intensity of his "fit" (as he thought of it), earlier that week, it had opened up something inside of him and let him to shrug off some of the weight that had been tormenting him, even without his knowledge. As he had thought on it, a quiet resolve had grown in him to follow this path that had innocuously opened to him.

The thought flashed into his mind that perhaps this would lead to his redemption. "Pssh!" he snorted, in a bit of black comedy. "...heh heh heh, hmm hmm, heh heh..." His shoulders shook as he chuckled. Not before, in his power and glory, nor now, in his squalor and imprisonment, had he ever sought or expected redemption. No, he could not expect something like that. All he could hope for was to lessen some of the pressure in his heart and mind. If this kind of self-examination could help him sleep easier...why not?

So he had purposely decided to face the next most traumatic memory of his life. Even as he had tried to save face and plan coups, even in his "contented" moments (such as they could be), the feelings of loss, despair, and loneliness had assailed him. He was fully prepared for a similar experience at this time.

Yet...as the minutes passed, he felt confused. When he had finally admitted his culpability in his family matters, the emotional release had been immense. He had literally been carried along in a wave of emotion. So what was different now? Losing his bending had been the hardest thing he had ever had to go through, until recently. What was going on here? Was he emotionally dead? Is this what that felt like?

In frustration, he got up and started pacing. This was so strange. Did this traumatic event somehow mean less to him than his other disappointments? It couldn't be true. All those nights, lonely nights...He cringed, reluctantly remembering how he would weep to himself- Wait.

It came back to him. Those memories that he had tried to repress. Those sleepless nights, those listless moments even in the presence of his co-conspirators. They had feared him enough still, or perhaps they craved his cooperation, to not mention his uncharacteristic moments.

He had struggled and anguished over many months and years, a little now, a little more later. He had even considered in his most inconsolable moments begging the Avatar to restore his bending. His pride wouldn't have sufficed to keep him from trying that course of action. No, the only thing that had kept him from making such a fool of himself was the certainty, even in his desperation, that the Avatar would not comply. He had seen the face of God, and God had passed his judgment, and would not revoke.

And what was becoming more and more evident as he reflected on these memories, was that it did not bother him as it once did. It did not bring him the feelings of loss, shame, and violation that he had struggled with for so long. What was different? Could it be that he had just gotten tired of feeling sorry for himself? Apparently he had dealt with this long enough, and now he could finally let it go.

Only, he had never thought this day would come. He was alive, and relatively healthy. Yes, he was in prison, but other than that, he was still Ozai, still himself. The loss of his bending was traumatic, and he still missed it. But he had grieved over it, and now he was ready to learn to live (such as it was, he thought, as he looked around his cell) without it, as a non-bender.

"Huh," he murmured aloud. This time, there had been no wild outpouring of emotion. He had been calm and in control throughout. He had merely searched his thoughts and memories aimlessly until he reached his realization. Yet looking back, he could say that it wasn't merely random. He had been led, almost instinctively, through his memories in such a way that he would naturally come to such a conclusion. It had felt right.

"Hmmmmm..." All of this thinking had put him in a contemplative mood. Before, he might have denied his feelings, or questioned why before he would accept it. But after being in this cell for five years, his famous pride had begun to wither away in the dark. So that now, when he began to experience these enlightening moments, he did not look a gift horse in the mouth, but gratefully accepted them.

The thought occurred to him that he might have begun to sound like Iroh.

"Hah!" he choked in a laugh. "Ha ha ha ha ah ha heh heh hee hee hmm hmmmm..."

Now that was funny.

-

"We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way." -Viktor Frankel

-

Preview for chapter 3

"I know you probably don't care," and then Ozai wanted to smack the insolent man, "but Fire Lord Zuko will be visiting you tomorrow." Ozai felt his skin crawl with anxiety.

"I don't know why he troubles himself to visit this place," the guard spat, "but we will make sure that his visit is a pleasant one. And you will be on your best behavior!"

Ozai smiled thinly, trying to look disarming. "Of course," he said sincerely, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. The guard eyed him, then scowled and slammed the door. Ozai slumped against the wall and tried to still his beating heart. He was going to see his son.


End file.
